


Eat Your Heart Out, Gertrude Stein

by skullage



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skullage/pseuds/skullage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn doesn’t have a watch any more; he measures time in distance. How long it’s been since he made Niall laugh, how far apart they were when they said goodnight. How many pieces he could put between his room and Niall’s, how many hours, minutes, seconds since Niall said his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eat Your Heart Out, Gertrude Stein

**Author's Note:**

> heavily modernist literature-influenced. also [this poem](http://poetrypages.lemon8.nl/life/musee/museebeauxarts.htm). for inga, my moon and stars.

Louis has a tendency to sink his teeth into a joke and not let it go. In the studio, he tells their lead songwriter that they should start using more gender-inclusive language in their songs, specifically “he” as the recipient, to relate to their growing fan-base. He glances pointedly at Zayn and Niall as he says it, and polishes it off with a wink, just in case everyone in the room didn’t get his intention. “Niall and Zayn sing pretty well exclusively to each other on stage, we might as well make it easier on them.”

Zayn takes his hand away where it rests on Niall’s thigh and immediately wishes he hadn’t. He’s – he’s not ashamed. He isn’t hiding anything. The way Louis smirks at him makes him wish he could, though. That he could have one thing that escaped Louis’s wit.

Niall doesn’t hesitate. He slings an arm around Zayn’s shoulders, looks right at him and says, “Think someone’s jealous, Zayner. The Tommo’s got no one ta sing to him.” Feels like they’re on stage. Cameras flashing, trained on them, Zayn’s keeping a lid on the smile that threatens to overwhelm him.

Harry and Liam let out exaggerated “awww”s that manage to drown out the sound of blood rushing in Zayn’s ears. Whatever staring contest he’s locked into with Niall is overshadowed by Liam trying to hug Louis and getting slapped in the face.

Their songwriter watches them silently, shaking her head a little, looking at them as though they’re children who need to be babysat and she doesn’t get paid well enough for this shit.

“I was serious, though,” Louis clarifies, and their manager, bless her, stares him down. She replies the same way she always does when Louis tries to be serious. A sweet smile, followed by, “We’re going in a different direction.”

~

Zayn and Niall always had a lot in common, and it didn’t take long for their similarities to outweigh their differences. They’ve spent so much time together, tipped by the scales, joined at the wrist and the waist and the microphone and the collar Niall keeps undoing onstage but refuses to fix for himself that even the others notice. Zayn seeks out Niall first, before anyone else, before the stupid shit Louis has planned for them because Niall’s just bought the new Kendrick Lamar and no, Zayn wasn’t doing anything, never too busy for you, Nialler. Louis’s a bastard and hasn’t seen Eleanor in long enough to need to blow off steam that he turns their conversations into jabs at Zayn’s reliance on Niall, his constant shadowing, the way Zayn’s eyes (apparently) light up whenever Niall opens his mouth, and seriously Zayn, don’t you love me anymore? It’s easy enough to deflect. These days Louis is all over Liam whenever they’re in the same room, and when did Zayn start thinking in terms of “these days”, anyway?

These days – what? Niall searches him out in the room first, before anyone else. These days Niall steals Zayn’s clothes instead of Harry’s, and Zayn will pull on an unwashed sweatshirt and be hit with a wave of Niall’s aftershave and day-old sweat, and he won’t have to go looking for it, won’t have to make up some excuse about Niall looking like he needs a hug just so Zayn can dig his nose into Niall’s hair and risk covering his hands in gel when he gets them in there, too.

Mostly, they share food. Hot dogs, chilli dogs, chilli con carne, fettuccini, chicken-fried steak, roast dinner, huevos rancheros, whatever Niall feels like, anything without olives because Zayn can’t stand the taste. He forgets, inevitably, when he orders the pizza with the lot to specify no olives, because Niall mentions that morning’s interview and imitates the interviewer’s ridiculous West Coast accent. It leaves Zayn struggling to breathe through his choked laughter until well after Niall’s finished order, and the waiter stands there, waiting, with a look on his face like he doesn’t get paid well enough for this shit.

Just as the waiter finishes writing down the order, Niall adds, “No olives on that pizza, man, sorry,” and Zayn sighs, because. Seriously.

“Every time,” he says, and Niall shrugs, “don’t even worry about it, mate,” like it’s too easy, and Zayn knows it’s because Niall’s good enough to remember that shit and he’d do it for anyone, but the reserved, understanding smile he flashes makes Zayn hope it isn’t. Hopes it’s because Niall think Zayn’s special.

The pizza tastes great, but Zayn can’t swallow past the lump in his throat. Can’t resist slapping Niall’s hand away as he makes a grab for it, only to watch his face light up when Zayn pushes the plate to the other side of the table.

~

Zayn’s been reading too much Nietzsche. He knows he’s been reading too much Nietzsche because the paradox of literal translation through metaphors that proves the truth is a lie, that the literal is only a representation, makes sense, but also because every time he says the name Nietzsche in his head it sounds like Niall. There isn’t a way to experience any perspective other than human, for Zayn to perceive the world without Niall clouding his vision – the way animals perceive, the way Liam can see notes as colours sometimes and Harry sees every moment as picture-worthy. Zayn puts the book down on the couch next to him. Niall helps wrap Louis’s head up in a scarf that covers most of his face, including his eyes, because sometimes the only thing that Louis wants is to be perceived. 

Most of the time Louis is blinding, but Zayn can’t help watching Niall’s hands. He feels his stomach lurch, his mood plummet like his blood sugar level is dipping; he just wants to sleep. Hopes Niall’s wearing his shirt so he can steal it back off him later, because they’re too old now to share beds for no reason other than they’re lonely. Louis stumbles around until he almost falls tripping over Zayn’s feet, and then he’s pulling Zayn up, shouting, “Dance with me, stud!” while Harry laughs in the background at Zayn’s attempt to waltz. Louis isn’t faring much better because he can’t even see where either of their feet are, tangled like Louis’s octopus arms around his neck. It’s too hot for this, surely. Too hot to stumble around the tour bus at midday through Texas, sweaty palms on sweaty skin, like drunken idiots with “bad choices” as their number one life goal.

When Zayn glances around Niall’s watching him closely, not laughing, but still smiling, and the heat Zayn feels on his cheeks has nothing to do with Louis.

~

The next day, Niall keeps. Can’t keep. The tour bus ride – unbearable. Can’t keep his hands to himself. There aren’t enough pennies in the world for Niall’s thoughts because the ones he comes out with (“Don’t want your pennies, Zayner, change is for idiots”) are golden. Zayn has a small fortune made up exclusively of pennies in his wallet and he’d give them to Niall if he didn’t know they’d go straight to Taco Bell. Hands on Zayn’s arms, arm around his shoulder. Hands under Zayn’s jacket.

Niall jumps on Zayn’s back as they walk into the radio station and if there was a microphone pinned to Zayn’s chest the entire room could hear it. His heart rabbiting under Niall’s hands, unsteady but alive.

~

It’s a sickness that’s worse than a sickness. It’s flu in summer. 

Even artists get the flu, sometimes, even ones in bands whose members spend hours trying to convince the artist that it’s the tattoo flu, no really Zayn. It’s when you have a build-up of terrible tattoos on your system and the God of Good Taste wants you to stop.

“Same god who gave you a pass when they were handing out fashion sense?” It’s a mouthful that’s mostly a slur, mostly a croak, mostly abuse of his vocal cords. Louis’s pout is priceless.

Harry laughs and immediately claps a hand over his mouth. Louis raises an eyebrow. “You’re lucky you’re sick, Malik, or I’d set Niall on you. He owes me after the smores fiasco.”

Niall. Responds with something like, “Nah, wouldn’t. Loves me.” He can’t hear himself over the marching band practise in his head. Sounds like Louis and Harry rehearsing intentionally off-key. Liam’s playing drums. Niall’s on triangle because it sort of rhymes. Might be halfway decent, but they’re no Jersey Boys.

Maybe One Direction could front them on their next tour. There’s enough of their clones running around. The clone smoothing down Zayn’s hair, the clone wearing Axe body spray with calluses on his fingers. The clone tweeting a picture of that time Zayn and Liam kissed that makes Zayn’s heart hurt because Liam kissed back. Smells like Zayn’s unwashed sweatshirt, Niall’s shampoo, tobacco on his fingers. The clone pulling Niall down on the bed with him to lick the scents off his skin because it’s always been too easy with Niall to hurt.

~

Niall teases Zayn about copying his style, but the truth is that Zayn wore tank tops first, buries them now under the layers necessary to survive living in England. He’s been to the Middle East, the Mid-West, that island off the coast of Australia, Spain, Switzerland. He’s through with this dreary English weather. Texas was his break-up letter, his last song, and he’d pop a bottle of champagne but tank tops and snapbacks are the better way to ring it in. He’ll survive until next time.

He pulls on one of Niall’s shirts, though. It’s pretty much a forfeit but Niall doesn’t tease. Niall says nothing throughout the day but he sticks close every time they’re in the studio together, brings his guitar with him wherever he goes Zayn goes, to practise while they wait, and it feels like a threesome. Fifteen minutes into Niall playing the same song over and over, concentrating so hard his entire face is red like a cherry on the end of Zayn’s cigarette. Zayn feels like he’s intruding.

Only, when he stands up he stumbles, ankles untangling from Niall’s. A mind of their own. Body betraying him, but he’s warm all over. Niall flushes. Fucks up the chord. Mumbled, half-hearted apology, eyes averted. Exit stage Zayn.

 

~

Zayn’s been leaving his sadness behind wherever he goes, piece by piece. Three am ticks closer, closer, closer. Zayn doesn’t have a watch any more; he measures time in distance. How long it’s been since he made Niall laugh, how far apart they were when they said goodnight. How many pieces he could put between his room and Niall’s, how many hours, minutes, seconds since Niall said his name. One day it’ll catch up to him and Zayn will have to buy a watch.

It’s criminal to miss someone who sleeps twenty feet from you this much.

He goes. This time he –

Slips. Out of bed through the door down the hall forgot the number wrote it on his

hand, too dark, turn back. Pad softly down the hall don’t wake anyone can’t see shit anyway dumbass, how is it this cold? New security guy. Walking in front of him it’s like an exhibit, it’z a zoo and he’s a lemur, needs a cigarette. Forgot the key. Can’t turn back. Knock once, chicken, don’t pay attention to the security, he’s not looking at the lemurs. No, you’re not the lemur, you’re the bird what’s that one? Blu-bill and crest. You’re the zoo. Niall gets scared because he’s not used to being noticed. Niall, he—

Opens the door. Sleep-rough, cursing. Turns as soon as he can open an eye but leaves the door open because.

Zayn follows him inside. Niall pulls the covers over them when Zayn settles and says nothing, says all that Zayn expected him he would. Their feet feel each other in the dark, kneecaps bumping and muttered apologies from Zayn that don’t sound genuine even in his head and he keeps moving, keeps apologising for minutes on end and every time he brushes against Niall, until Niall curses him out. Always curses. Wraps his arms around Zayn and. Nudges his head back, pins his arms. Slots his face into the crook of Zayn’s neck. Nose against his Adam’s apple. Breath against his throat. Their chests pressed together and Niall’s leg jammed between Zayn’s knees and their breathing anything but even.

~

From then on Niall’s bed is the one left unoccupied. Crawls into Zayn’s bed at night, sleeps on his stomach, face mashed into whatever part of Zayn is nearest, or comfiest. Zayn falls asleep, inevitably, counting the times Niall kicks his shins. Wakes up most mornings to Niall in his bed, every breath coursing with the need to reach out. Break the distance they’ve built silently between themselves to protect whatever burgeoning thing curls in their stomachs and drags them back to each other, every night, every night.

Every moment thinking this is it, when Niall rolls over to stare up at him, his eyes gummed shut and his tongue hanging out. A yawn that Zayn wants to smother with his mouth. Spill all his secrets inside of him like therapy bills across a waiting room floor, and in turn take in all of Niall’s. Even if Niall doesn’t have any secrets. Even if, in the very depths of his soul, all he wants is a full English breakfast, Zayn wants to be the one to hear it.

He rolls over instead. Zayn, Zayn does it. Does it again until he’s off the bed. Reaching for his sweats. Not looking at Niall, bare-chested, hair a mess, scratching across his belly. This morning feels different. Each morning is the same, each minute the same excruciating crawl that fails to bring them closer, but this morning. Zayn threw out his watch and he isn’t counting any more.

Niall watches Zayn watch Niall and stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, hoping—

“More studio today,” Niall says, collapses back on the bed. “More guitar, so that’s a plus.”

“Sounded good yesterday.”

“Thanks, man. Excited about it, y’know? Name in the credits and all that.”

“Your voice on the album, dude, don’t forget it.”

Niall beams. “Yours too.”

Zayn glances away. Searches. “Can’t believe Liam’s actually beatboxing on this one.”

Niall sits back up. Stares.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Pause. “We got half an hour before we gotta be up.” 

Zayn spins around, gets a face full of sunshine – first in ages – as he slips a t-shirt over his head. Easier to stare into the sun than Niall’s questioning face, but what’s the difference? One way he’ll drop, he’ll burn his wings off and plummet into the sea. The other way, he’ll.

Niall jerks his head back in an exaggerated motion, beckons him forward. Two steps and Zayn’s there, sliding a knee onto the mattress, and Niall accommodates by pulling the covers back more. Zayn gets in. The bed smells of a combination of their hair gel and sweat, faint traces of the candy bar Zayn knows Niall didn’t finish and stuffed under his pillow instead. A minute of stiff, awkward silence in which Zayn lays on his back, still and unsure. Morning silence. It’s a new one.

After a minute Niall takes pity on him, covers him up, nudges his shoulder until Zayn rolls over. Niall’s arms snaking around him, one under his head, the other across his waist. Shuffling again, that’s somehow less awkward this time and more settling into each other’s skin. Niall huffs a laugh against the nape of Zayn’s neck, nosing the flesh there, his hairline, the knob of his spine, and Zayn laughs to get rid of the lurch in his stomach. It speaks volumes about them both. How Niall knows Zayn’s reservations, can push and indulge him at the same time. He doesn’t need therapist bills; he’s staring at the sun, still, squeezing Niall’s hand where it rests on his stomach. Burning up when Niall squeezes back.


End file.
